"Raise your hand if you're messed up".
That's what I heard but not what they said.
My hand slowly rises and they grin.
Fresh meat.
Then they proceed with uncanny resemblance to TV.

State your name, to be added to the menu.
They want more details, er ingredients.
Their eyes are locked, watching for golden brown.
Lapping lips, heads droopy and bobbing,
The blood in my neck runs cold and then clotting,

****.
This place is over-*******-flowing with vulnerability vultures.
My fight or flight kicks in and I become needlessly angry.
Why the hell am I here?
He's not my problem anymore.
Why the hell am I mad?
He's not my problem anymore.

But I sit and I listen to the  man on my right.
He shields his eyes and I know why.
The longer you sit, the longer they glare,
The longer they hope your gaze transforms
Into yet another hungry vulture's stare.